


Marigolds

by writteninhaste



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, on May 22nd, Arthur receives an orange Marigold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marigolds

**Author's Note:**

> written for [ This prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/13659.html?thread=31317083#t31317083) at the [Inception kinkmeme](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/13659.html)

Every year, on May 22nd, Arthur receives an orange Marigold.

Marigolds are ugly flowers. They lack the simple elegance of a budding rose; the effortless arch of a lily petal. Marigolds are bright, bushy and have a tendency to continue to bloom long after they're welcome. Still, every year, Arthur will receive a single, orange marigold. And every year, he will put it in a simple vase of water and wait for it to wilt.

Naturally, Arthur receives other presents around this time of year. From Cobb - and at one point from Mal too - there would be antiquarian books or select bottles of alcohol. Something Arthur would enjoy and like to own. Since Arthur met Eames, these gifts have also been accompanied by selections of modern poetry; a number of paintings Arthur would like very much to believe were reproductions but fears might actually be originals; and, often, a rather incredible array of condoms and lubrication (inevitably accompanied by a note that says: _You know where to find me, darling._ )

Arthur has his suspicions as to the origins of the orange marigolds, but he never says anything.  
________________________________________

By the time Arthur is in his mid-thirties, he has an impressive collection of dried marigolds hidden between the pages of a book beneath his bed. Cobb has been out of the game for years, settled into retirement and the nail-biting excitement that is the PTA. He's on the phone to Eames, trying to sell a rather undesirable job that's due to run out of Belize in less than a week. Eames is being rather uncooperative.

"I'd love to, darling - really I would. But I'm a little busy right now, I'm afraid."

"You don't have any other jobs at the moment, Mr Eames." Arthur says, rather dryly. "I checked."

"Yes, well - this one might be the tiniest bit _legal_." Eames says the word like it's something to inspire shame and Arthur nearly spits his coffee all over his newly cleaned kitchen floor.

" _Legal?_ ”

Eames sighs and Arthur can hear him switch the phone from one ear to the other. "Queen and Country. It was an ideal I held rather dear at one point, if you remember."

Arthur does remember. He remembers the early days of dream-share and the way Eames' uniform was always pristine and neat. His salutes were crisp, as impeccable as the service record that accompanied them. This was something Eames had _wanted_ ; something he truly yearned for. Arthur remembers the lost and stricken look in Eames' eyes when the military had tossed the baby out with the bathwater - throwing their soldiers overboard together with the Somnacin.

"Be careful." Arthur tells him, because really, at this stage, there's nothing else he can say.

"Always, darling." Eames says. And then, because he can't help being a prick. "Do I get a kiss if I return alive?"

"Goodbye, Mr Eames." Arthur says, and hangs up.

He sends Eames a text later to inform him that whatever job it is that Eames is running does not excuse him from buying Arthur a gift. His birthday is coming up. Eames dutifully promises to buy Arthur something nice. And Arthur finds himself polishing the vase, making sure it's clean and empty for when that obnoxious orange marigold inevitably arrives.  
________________________________________

The marigold never arrives.

Arthur gets a coffee-pot from Cobb, gloves from Ariadne and then a book from Miles.

He waits for the condoms and the flower and the paintings that he pretends to think are fakes. Arthur waits for days, not leaving the house in case something arrives.

He scours the internet, looking for signs - but no one knows where Eames was going and Arthur's left going slightly spare trying to make wisps of information multiply.

A week goes by. Arthur is woken from a daze, drool collecting on his laptop's keys at just after eleven in the morning. There's a man at the door wearing a postman's uniform. Arthur snatches the package from his hands, barely takes the time to sign and then slams the door again. He rips open the paper covering the box, tears at tape and string and yanks the lid to reveal what is beneath.

There's no orange marigold. Instead, nestled on a folded note is a single, faded poker chip. The gilt writing is old and worn and when Arthur picks it up he realises that there's a hair-fine crack, running down the centre. Arthur feels vaguely sick.

He plucks the note from the box and opens it to see unfamiliar handwriting scrawled along the page.

 _Officially_ it says, _you're not supposed to know. They don't want to admit to it just yet. But they won't notice that it's gone and I know he would have wanted it to go to you. I'm sorry for your loss._

Arthur lays the note down and sets the poker chip beside it.

He won't receive a marigold this year. The thought makes Arthur's chest tight and his head spin. It takes him two more days to realise this means he won't ever receive marigolds again.

**End**

 


End file.
